


got pink and black and blue for you

by coffeesomemore



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV), Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: Cop!AU, F/F, keep allston shitty, mostly a Pitch Perfect fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeesomemore/pseuds/coffeesomemore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cop!AU. Meet Officers Mitchell and Beale, the sometimes-best detective team in Brooklyn's 99th Precinct.</p><p>"“Why’d you become a cop?” Beale asks.</p><p>Beca fidgets, reaches for her phone, puts her phone back without checking it. “Why'd you become a cop?" she asks back.</p><p>“I wanted to help people and I knew I’d be good at it, and you can’t say the same thing.”</p><p>Beca shrugs. “It’s personal.”</p><p>“You can call me Chloe, if that helps,” Beale says, a little mocking."</p>
            </blockquote>





	got pink and black and blue for you

**Author's Note:**

> shhh I'm supposed to be working on something else. this is like, 15% [Care/maladyofthequotidian's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Care/pseuds/Care) fault, 85% my insomnia's fault. Keep Allston shitty, y'all. title's from "Bruises," by Chairlift.

This is some serious Nancy Drew shit, is the first thought Beca has when she’s calmed down enough to even think. Then she says it out loud, hissing, “This is some serious Nancy Drew shit.”

 

Beale shifts beside her. Her hair tickles Beca’s nose, and Beca wants to sneeze in the worst way and it’s all Beale’s fault that she can’t—and then Beale whispers right in her ear, “I loved Nancy Drew!”

 

“Of course you did.”

 

Because Nancy Drew _would_ sneak into a warehouse, hide inside a wardrobe, get locked in that wardrobe, get loaded face-up into a van, and then probably driven across state lines. Only someone like Nancy Drew would get accidentally felony-kidnapped. So of course Beale loved Nancy Drew. Of course, Chloe Beale, the perkiest detective in the 99th Precinct to ever investigate a potential cocaine shipment _without calling for backup_ , leaving Beca to scurry after her like she’s babysitting some amateur civilian sleuth, of course Chloe fucking Beale loves Nancy Drew. Who else would hear footsteps coming and think, _yeah, time to hide somewhere with only one exit and bring my partner with me so we’re both trapped_.

 

Beale shifts some more and jabs Beca in the ribs with an elbow. “Ow, what the hell was that for?”

 

“Sorry, I was just trying to find my holster.”

 

“Well, be careful.”

 

“Yeah,” Beale whispers, “because I’m just gonna wave my gun around when we have twelve square feet of space.”

 

“You got us into these twelve square feet so at this point, I don’t know what you’re gonna do.”

 

There’s another jab to her ribs, this time definitely deliberate. “I’m improvising, okay? And besides, this way we’ll definitely know where the drugs are going.”

 

Their unsuspecting drivers settle on a radio station. The wardrobe vibrates slightly with every floor-shaking bass beat. “We better not end up in Jersey City, is all I’m saying,” Beca grumbles.

 

\--

 

It’s been an hour. Beca has already texted Captain Holt, who asked super inconvenient questions like, “Do you know your destination?” and, “Did you get a license plate number?” and, “Do you have any idea what’s going on there, Mitchell?” Beca signed off with a, “Will txt u w mor info”

 

Her foot’s also asleep. “I still can’t believe this is happening,” she whispers. “What were you thinking?”

 

“I was thinking that they obviously have a roster of warehouses that they cycle through when they’re loading up, and it could be weeks before we caught up with them again, so I had to act fast.”

 

“You didn’t also think that was important to tell me?”

 

Beale’s shoulders shrug against Beca’s. “I had to act fast. Besides, you ran in right after me without question, so I thought you’d come to the same conclusion.”

 

“Why would you think that?”

 

“Because why else would you have come along without question?!” Beale’s voice goes a little too loud, and they both tense up, holding completely still for a full minute.

 

Beca glowers in the dark. Because that’s what a good partner does, cover for their partner when she’s doing something _outrageously stupid_. And yes, maybe call for backup beforehand because she’s obviously forgotten, but Beca thinks about Beale running not-sneakily-at-all into the warehouse, gun barely concealed, absolutely no recon and completely vulnerable, and--it’s not protocol, but she thought that backup wouldn’t arrive in time if something went wrong, anyway, and it’d be a waste of time with Beale already moving fast out of her sight line.

 

She stands by that choice, but she’s not going to tell Beale, like, _because I wanted to have your back and make sure you didn’t get shot while you were busy playing Nancy Drew_. Gross.

 

She’s about to respond when the van coasts to a stop and the radio shuts off.

 

The back of the van opens, and the wardrobe wobbles for a bit before they’re lifted completely. “This shit is heavy, damn,” someone grunts on the other side of the wood from Beca.

 

“Bro,” the guy on Chloe’s side says derisively.

 

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t say a fucking word, Aribo, I swear to god.”

 

They’re jostled up a ramp, carried a few more seconds, and then dropped down with a clang. Beca’s knees bang against the locked doors. Judging by the scraping sounds, they’re in the back of a U-Haul. Great. At least they’re set upright this time, so Beca can shake the feeling back into her foot.

 

“Is that everything?” the first guy says after a few more minutes of transferring stuff from, Beca’s guessing, multiple vans.

 

“All eighteen pieces, yup. Everything’s in the usual spots.”

 

“All right, Boston here we come,” he says, and Beale slaps a hand over Beca’s mouth before Beca can say anything. Beca rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. She regrets it instantly. The taste of gunmetal and oil and steering wheel leather on Beale’s palm coats her entire mouth. Beside her, Beale exhales long and quiet. Beca can just imagine the smug _yeah that backfired, didn’t it_ look on her face. Her hand stays in place, though, and Beca focuses on the faint waft of her perfume instead of the acrid feeling in her mouth.

 

The U-Haul door rattles shut, and a minute later the engine starts in the cab and they start moving. Beca’s not sure how it happens, but she tries to angle her head away from Beale so she can freak out a little--maybe while Beale is also relaxing her hand--and as she opens her mouth, her teeth catch on a finger. She doesn’t know why, but her first instinct is to bite down, not hard, but enough to get Beale back for covering her mouth in the first place, and without meaning to, her tongue flicks along the pad of her fingertip. Beale freezes for a moment. Beca’s brain goes terrifyingly blank.

 

Then Beale moves away completely.

 

Heart shaking in her ribcage, Beca half-yells, “We’re going straight to _Boston_?”

 

“I told you Smith was higher up in the coke ring than he looked!”

 

She ignores that for now, because ugh, Beale, and focuses on the bigger problem. “That’s at least a four hour drive. We’re going to be stuck in here for four hours.”

 

“We should--”

 

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Beca says, already pulling out her phone to call Holt. Of course Beale’s phone died in the first ten minutes of this journey. Beca’s pretty sure she couldn’t have been less prepared, so, good thing Beca  _is_ trapped in here with her. Or something.

 

Gina answers the phone: “Mmmm yeah, 99th Precinct, what’s your damage?”

 

“It’s me, Detective Mitchell, I need to speak to the Captain.”

 

“Yeah,” Gina drawls, “you’re gonna have to wait on that, he’s a little occupied right now.”

 

“Like how occupied, this is urgent--”

 

“I’m not too sure, I saw Peralta come through with like a wholesale, like, orgy-sized tub of Vaseline. Like big enough to drown a baby--”

 

“Wow, no, don’t tell me more,” Beca interrupts.

 

“And a cheap latex suit--”

 

“Gina! Just have him call me back as soon as he can. It’s urgent. Super urgent.”

 

“You got it, I will definitely remember that and make it his top priority.”

 

“You’re gonna go hide in the supply closet so you don’t have to deal with Boyle, aren’t you.”

 

“Yup.”

 

“You’re not gonna tell Holt I called, are you.”

 

“Nope. Good detecting, Detective! Glad we had this talk, yes that’s a lie.”

 

\--

 

It’s been another hour.

 

She got up with Holt eventually, but they can’t do anything until they’re actually in Boston, and then Beca’s GPS can point the Boston PD to the right place. Not that she’ll be able to use the GPS on her phone, if she keeps messing with it. The battery’s already at 40%.

 

“Can you cut that out?” Beale asks. “It’s hurting my eyes.”

 

Beca sighs and puts the phone back in her pocket. “I’m starving,” she says.

 

“I have some KitKat bars.”

 

“Gross, the worst candy bar, no thanks.”

 

A wrapper crinkles, and then the smell of cheap chocolate fills the wardrobe.

 

Beca listens to Beale quietly crunch the candy bar for a few seconds before her stomach gurgles. “Okay, yeah, break me off a piece of that.”

 

Beale offers it up to her mouth. Fuck, Beale’s basically feeding her a KitKat bar. It’s embarrassing as hell but like, they can’t see and there’s not much room anyway, so Beca just accepts it and resolves to never think about this again ever in daylight (or moonlight or any time that isn’t right now). Beale’s fingers press lightly against her chin, skimming briefly over her lips before withdrawing completely. Beca starts to follow her hand instinctively, but then stops herself.

 

“Thanks,” she says, out of rhythm and a minute too late.

 

Beale hums to herself and shoves the empty wrapper in her pocket, her elbow only grazing Beca’s side this time.

 

\--

 

More time passes, and Beca’s starting to feel antsy. She’s been in the same position for forever now, and it’s hard enough to sit still for morning meetings, much less, you know, _accidental kidnapping_.

 

Beale must be able to sense it, because she asks, out of nowhere, “Why’d you become a cop?”

 

“What?”

 

“We all told our origin stories a few weeks ago, but you weren’t around and you haven’t ever talked about it. Why’d you become a cop?”

 

Beca fidgets, reaches for her phone, puts her phone back without checking it. “Why’d you become a cop?” she asks back.

 

“I wanted to help people and I knew I’d be good at it, and you can’t say the same thing.”

 

Beca shrugs. “It’s personal.”

 

“You can call me Chloe, if that helps,” Beale says, a little mocking.

 

“Ugh. Fine. My dad was a crook and I didn’t like him, so, like, I did it out of principle.”

 

“Oh my god, that’s such a lie, your dad’s a state senator. Oh.” Beale laughs. “Oh wow, look at Mitchell with the jokes over there. Didn’t know you had it in you today--shit.”

 

The U-Haul hits a pothole, and Beale loses her footing, falling heavily against Beca while Beca braces herself against the walls of the wardrobe.

 

“Shit,” Beale says again, but Beca can barely hear her over the feeling of Beale’s breath against her mouth. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Beale says. She tries to push herself back up, and yeah wow, definitely ends up groping Beca instead. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Mitchell, I seriously didn’t mean--”

 

“It’s fine,” Beca manages to say without going too high-pitched. It’s totally not fine. And why is Beale still so close, like, Beca can sense her lips a centimeter away and it’s the least fine thing in the world. “I know it’s hard for you to control yourself around my irresistible charm,” she says, more confident than she feels.

 

“Right, yeah, that’s it,” Beale says, and Beca knows it’s supposed to be a joke, but Beale sounds a little too serious and fuck, _fuck_ \--”Uh, Beca?”

 

“Can I help you, _Chloe_?”

 

“I’m gonna try something,” is all the warning Chloe gives her before her lips are on Beca’s.

 

It’s the most fine thing in the world. It’s petrifying.

 

Chloe pulls back after a second. “Okay, wow, Mitchell, I’m sorry. About the groping, and about the--that, I’m sorry, that was totally inappropriate and I shouldn’t have done any of this, I’m sorry I got you stuck in this stupid wardrobe--”

 

Beca swallows a few times and gets her voice back. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Chloe. Slow down.” She can still feel Chloe’s mouth tantalizingly close to hers, like a phantom limb. She lowers one hand carefully, first bumping into Chloe’s shoulder before sliding over and up, fits her palm against the soft column of Chloe’s neck, thumb on the corner of her jaw, and leans forward.

 

Chloe sighs into her mouth, lets out a tiny hum that sounds inexplicably sexy, that buzzes through Beca’s mouth and straight down through her body, and Beca pulls her closer. Her other hand splays flat against Chloe’s spine. Chloe’s lips are stupidly soft, stupidly smooth, and stupidly amazing. Beca can’t lie, she’s thought about this _a lot_ , in scenarios way better than this one, and her imagination didn’t even come close to how good Chloe really feels, solid and wanting against her, even if they are cramped and she can’t see.

 

“This kind of breaks protocol,” Chloe reminds her.

 

“Which part,” Beca retorts, and Chloe doesn’t answer with words.

 

\--

 

So they make out, _hard_ , for an amount of time that Beca doesn’t care about at all. Then Holt calls again to check up on them, and Beca has to maintain a steady voice while Chloe presses her stupid, stupid mouth against her neck and sucks a delicate line up one side and down the other. As soon as she hangs up, Beca reaches out for Chloe with both hands, trying to get her to stop being so distracting.

 

“Holt says--fuck, Beale, come on--Holt says the Boston PD’s on notice, so we need to start updating everyone on our status.”

 

Chloe doesn’t move away; she just reaches into Beca’s back pocket--Beca goes dizzy for a hot second--and pulls her phone back out. “37% left,” she says. “Good thing you were too occupied to wear it down, huh?”

 

“Shut up,” Beca mutters.

 

Chloe hands her the phone. By its glow Beca can finally see, and Chloe has such a goddamn smug look on her face that Beca has to kiss it off before she can start back on police business.

 

“Peralta and Santiago are gonna give us so much shit,” Beca says as she’s trying to figure out how to copy-paste their GPS coordinates into a text.

 

Chloe scoffs. “Whatever. We’re about to crack this massive case. We’re gonna be rockstars. They can suck it.”

 

Beca notes the _we_ , feels a hot rush low in her stomach at the pride in Chloe's voice.

 

\--

 

They end up in Allston, in the tiny back parking lot of an apartment building. Beca crouches with her hand on her weapon, ready to bust the hell out of this place. Chloe waits beside her, equally poised and coiled. They hear the cab door open and then slam shut.

 

Chloe squeezes her shoulder. Beca feels it all the way down her back, feels all her nerves set on edge. “Hey,” she whispers, and she doesn’t know why she’s nervous when she’s just spent so much time getting to know the inside of Chloe’s mouth, “after we’re done with this, do you want to go out and get dinner or something?”

 

“I’d love to,” Chloe whispers.

 

The U-Haul door rattles open.

 

“Can it be at a bar?”

 

“Duh.”

 

Three people haul themselves into the back. Beca takes measured breaths while they move out the rest of the furniture. A pair of feet pauses in front of the wardrobe. “This was really heavy when we were moving it in Connecticut, I’m gonna just empty it,” the driver says.

 

Beca carefully clicks off her safety. She listens to the key turn in the lock. She watches one door swing back millimeter by millimeter. And then Chloe bursts out of the wardrobe, weapon drawn. Beca leaps out after her, making sure Chloe's covered, while Chloe stands firm and bellows, ”NYPD! Hands up, get on the ground!”


End file.
